She Fell Down
by sade1
Summary: She had slowly begun to realize that it wasn’t “life” that was hard, or getting harder. It was she who was getting softer. She felt like a piece of clay, slipping between the cracks.


She Fell Down

By: Sade

I in no way own any of the characters presented in any of this. I'm just using them for a bit. I'll give them back without having made any money off of them. 

A/N: Again, I'm not sure if this is just a stand-alone, or if it will need more.  Implicated R, but this is probably PG-13 in comparison to other stuff on her.  Be kind, review.  Everyone needs feedback. 

****** ****** ******

Just start, she thought, just fucking start. Do it and get it over with. But even though the desire to do it was so great, and had been eating at her for days; no, let's be honest: weeks; as she held the blade in her hand she felt ashamed. Scared too, since we're being honest here. You never really forget how to play the game...but you become dangerous out of practice.  
  
The door was locked and warded; if anyone tried to come in they would have to knock first. Hermione almost wished she were far, far away from here...from anything known, anyone familiar, new and lost and alone in that wonderful anonymous way. She dreamed of being a new shell, a new person, dreamed. But the nightmares were more often, and stronger.  
  
She had slowly begun to realize that it wasn't "life" that was hard, or getting harder. It was she who was getting softer. She felt like a piece of clay, slipping between the cracks. Being stepped on, yes, but that was her fault. Everything was her fault. She had asked for it all, put herself in the way of a force she couldn't yet comprehend. She saw its power and asked no questions.  
  
What was more exhilarating? The anticipation of the act? The actual act itself? Or the occasional shocked or disturbed look if she didn't cover herself. No, not really that last one; because this was something that was her alone. Her own escape, and to bring someone into that would ruin the moment. And sometimes, the moment was all she had to cling on to.  
  
She felt shame thinking of family, some of her friends; friends who relied on her for knowledge she had already stolen. Friends who wouldn't understand...who would fight and kick and scream at her, threaten her, all in the name of her "safety." Safety is a funny word. Why is safety important? Who are we saving each other from? No matter how careful you are, Fate's a vengeful bitch, cheat her once and you're hers for life.   
  
How can she be so hypocritical? To think she is so smart, she is so clean. She is a fool. She is self-righteous, she feels slandered at the accusations of being a liar. For whose business is her life but her own at this point? Certainly not those who raised her, first molding her, then pounding her into shape, into a shape she wouldn't, couldn't go. I am not your little girl, I am someone lost...  
  
Possession of that shiny object, a found treasure, a ticket home...red on white, what a pleasing sight. Oh, that look...that first look when you see my scars, when you see my wounds. Like I'm a broken doll, needing to be fixed. I hate you for your condescension. I hate you for your presumptions. Quick to judge, quick to die, pens and swords are all alike. It's the hand that wields them that makes the difference.  
  
I'm no little child playing with a loaded gun. I'm no innocent, don't be deceived by my calm exterior that I'm anything like you, this isn't about finding the you in me, this is nothing you can relate to.   
  
This all started out so differently...intentions and actions never really meet, but with an infinite number of planes of existence it's hard to match up two polar opposites. This wasn't supposed to be a haunted existence, staring at captive memories remembering that it has always been so, it always shall be...nothing changes, nothing stays the same. Locations, people, objects, all change...but state of mind, that remains fixed.  
  
Because nothing had been simple for her.  She wasn't even sure if it ever could be.  Everything was too much, so many details cluttering her head, slowing her down, making her sluggish.  Even her hair was out of control; it blew behind her like so many memories, crazy and crooked and convoluted like so many confusing thoughts that crowded around her with a speed that seemed impossible.  Yet her words sounded as though they were in slow motion, and her tired eyes saw trails where her fingers twirled nervously at a strand of hair in her peripheral vision.   
  
Could she rationalize her actions in a way that even she could believe?  Could she excuse her words that dripped with desire for something that she should never touch, something that was so out of reach it would have scared those around her?  She always looked in people's eyes, for they always held the words that never slipped from lips.  Guarded, everyone was too scared to acknowledge anything beyond the pale masks and feigned smiles that "normal interactions" were fraught with.   
  
Dark hair, pale skin cool to the touch, fingers and tongues and other body parts all combined together in a kaleidoscope of nothing.  She always felt his eyes on her afterwards, in class, in the hall, during meals; they bore into her head and she tried to forget, tried to not analyze the events for once in her life.  He had told her to just feel, and she had gone with him, allowed his exploration of her body, fascinated as she was with his.  She had no feelings for him at first, no hidden agenda, and no idea of what could happen behind closed doors when a teacher and student were alone together.   
  
She sometimes thought that his touch could split her atoms; fiery, yet controlled, always in control.  She intuited his every movement, word, breath, trying to see everything he didn't say, volumes of unspoken fictional text she read in her mind.   
  
He haunted her now, in memory, in presence, her heart raced when she felt him looming over her, when he whispered into her ear things only a lover would say, and her hands would tremble, and she would feel eyes upon her, wondering, questioning.  Still she would go to him when he asked, and their meetings were so very silent but for the sounds of their pleasure.  It was her fault.  It was always her fault.  
  
So quick, the draw; hesitation in her body, and her mind hasn't caught up yet, either. This pain cannot be labeled, cannot be tainted, cannot be boxed up in a neat and tidy package. What is wrong with wanting one pure emotion, one uncomplicated moment?


End file.
